


Waiting for My Real Life to Begin (Old Photographs Waltz)

by liz_marcs



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Character Study, Drama, Futurefic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liz_marcs/pseuds/liz_marcs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere along the way Faith became a controlled, careful Faith. She’s just not sure that she’s really Faith any more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faith and the Issue of Horizons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zulu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Watcher](https://archiveofourown.org/works/971) by [zulu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu). 



> All of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (television only). Comics are ignored.
> 
> Title and inspiration for the story are taken from "Waiting for My Real Life to Begin" by Colin Hay.

Faith’s a coastal kinda girl.

East coast. West coast. Either way she’s good, so long as the ocean is in something resembling driving distance. It isn’t like she’s the type to hang out on beaches or haunt the cheesy boardwalks that usually come with. And she sure as shit isn’t the type to squeeze into some cheap-ass J.C. Penny swimsuit special, deal with sand sticking to her ass, and fry her skin until it’s as dark as cheap leather.

It’s more like she loves the _idea_ of the ocean. All that big, wide open. All that mystery under the waves. All that water that might as well be a desert if the undertow grabs you and drags you out into the deep blue.

Back in the day when she stood on a beach, shielded her eyes from the sun, and stared at the horizon she could (almost) imagine that something better was waiting for her over that horizon. _That’s_ the idea she really loved.

Lake Erie, on the other hand, ain’t no ocean.

She feels it in her bones like only a coastal girl can. Sure, it looks like a big, wide open, but she knows that when she stares at the horizon the only thing on the other side is Canada. Nothing against Canada, especially since she’s never been across anything resembling an international border, but the fact that when she looks out over Erie and all she sees is a big-ass lake and Canada on the other side of the horizon strikes her as a perfect picture of where her life is at.

In some ways, being free in Cleveland feels more like a prison than the actual prison in California.  At least in a California prison she could imagine the ocean was close by.  She even had a plan for the day she got out (if she ever got out). Thumb a ride to the beach, stand on the shore with her hand shading her eyes, and stare at that Pacific horizon.

Didn’t exactly work out that way, and she never did get a chance to peep at the ocean between breaking out of prison and fleeing Sunnydale. 

She feels kinda cheated on that score. 

Because right now she could use an ocean and a horizon she can look at, and she needs to imagine that something better is waiting for her there if only she could reach the other side


	2. Faith and the Issue of Trust

**  
_Buffy watches Faith like she watches Angel after letting him get dangerously close to third base: not quite sure she can trust her, but wanting her, always wanting her. It will never happen._   
**

 

Faith stumbles into the communal kitchen suffering from a severe case of exhaustion.

“Hey you, sleepy girl.”

Faith startles. She figured she’d at least be alone this time of the night.

No. Wait.

It’s morning now. Past three in the morning, in fact.

Buffy’s smile is almost as tired as Faith feels. “I’ve got tea-ness, and enough hot water to make a second cup. But if you’re totally off the tea, I think there’s some Folger’s crystals around. Don’t recommend the Folger’s, though, because, well, yuck.”

Faith’s just about to lay a thanks-but-no-thanks on Buffy, but a brief thought about the alternative stops the words from ever leaving her brain.

Next thing she knows, Buffy’s shoving a steaming mug in her hand. “Wow. You really _are_ tired. You just gave me a glassy-eyed stare that made me check myself for a second and third head. Or possibly a tail.” Buffy spins around to show Faith her ass, and looks over her left shoulder as if she could somehow twist 180-degrees at the waist to get a good look for herself. “Speaking of which, I _don’t_ have a tail, do I?”

“Your ass is fine, B,” Faith says as she heavily drops into a kitchen chair.

Buffy stares at her a beat, as if expecting more. When all Faith does is curl her hands around the mug and deeply inhale the steam, Buffy’s expression mutates into a frown.

“What is it, B?” Faith mumbles. “I ain’t in the mood for games.”

Buffy shrugs and drops into the chair to Faith’s right with a grunt. “Just that usually you’ve got a remark for times like this. Like how my ass is fine, but not as fine as yours. Or how my ass is fine, if flat asses are your thing. Y’know. Some kind of insulting remark bordering on the not-so-vague about how much I suck and how much you rock.”

“Too tired to state the friggin’ obvious, B,” Faith answers without any heat. “Gotta say, though, you had me with the tail. I thought you were serious for a second there.”

Buffy giggles. There’s a half-hysterical note to it. “I was. Serious, I mean. It’s been that kind of night.”

“Let me guess. You ran into a demon with some magical mojo?” On Buffy’s headshake, Faith immediately starts counting off the other possibilities. “Fine. Mage mojo? Witch mojo? Or god mojo?”

Buffy waves a hand. “Mage. Whacked out of his gourd on…wait for it…”

“Orpheus,” Faith interrupts.

“I love the way you say Orpheus,” Buffy leans back in her chair and all the tension rushes out of her body posture as if she’s ready to fall asleep right there at the table, “like it’s this really offensive word that needs to be scrubbed out of everyone’s mouth with a Brillo pad.”

“Not much of a guess, B.” Faith pauses to sip at her mug. Still too much water and not enough tea, but at least it’s hot. She’ll take hot. “We seem to be all about wading in the shit around the big O, and not much else these days.”

Buffy winces. “There is some Slay-age going on between the searching.”

“I know. I know.” Faith waves her hands as if warding off a blow. “It’s just that this whole sitch sucks the big weenie, and I’m running out of patience.”

“And I’m running out of lives, hence me worrying about a tail,” Buffy glumly agrees. “While doing a knock-and-walk-through on our last stop tonight, I tripped over this _seriously_ homeless-looking guy in the middle of his big suck-off. Homeless-smelling, too. Guess he didn’t like the interruption because he was on his feet like _wow_. Next thing we knew, the magic bombs were going off like it was the Fourth of July.”

“Judging by the fact you’re banging around at this hour,” Faith pauses to pointedly glance at the kitchen clock, “I’m guessing you got a big ol’ nothing for your trouble.”

“The truth is still out there.” Buffy sounds legitimately discouraged. “You?”

Faith shrugs. “Got a bead on five more possibilities. Figured on checking them out tomorrow. Tonight I focused on some classic dusting action.”

“The classics,” Buffy sighs. “Right now, that’s rating high on the appeal factor. Maybe I’ll take a page from your notebook and do some cemetery cruising tomorrow.”

“Check out Memorial,” Faith advises. “I bet there’s a party going on down there.”

“Memorial. Check and double-check.” Buffy sounds downright chipper about the prospect.

Faith glances at the other Slayer, lifts her cup for another hopeful sip, and freezes.

Buffy’s immediately on alert. “What’s wrong?”

Faith starts to laugh. She can’t help it. Her and B, sitting in a kitchen, sipping tea like a pair of little old ladies, and trading war stories. How the fuck did they get from Sunnydale to _here_?

“Faith?” Buffy asks. “Faith? You okay?”

Faith waves Buffy away and finally takes her sip of tea. Better. Not great, but better. “Just tired, B. I think it’s all starting to get to me.”

“So? Go to bed. Get some sleep.”

Jesus. Buffy sounds _relieved._ And concerned. And she’s looking at Faith like she’d look at Willow, or Xander, or…

Faith has no idea what to do with _this_ , whatever the hell _this_ is that has happened between her and Buffy while she wasn’t looking. Instead of dealing with it, instead of mentioning it, she chooses to retreat and not think about it at all. Even though she doesn’t particularly want to crawl into bed with Robin right now, it suddenly seems like the safer option.

“You’re right,” Faith says as she stands up fast enough to scrape the chair across the kitchen linoleum. “I need to catch some zees so I can look pretty for my crawl through Cleveland’s shitholes tomorrow night.”

“’Night, Faith,” Buffy says as she settles in for some quality alone time with her tea.

Faith can’t help herself. “Back atchya. Just make sure you have Willow take care of that third eye growing out of your forehead.”

Buffy squawks as Faith turns away with a grin. She doesn’t have to glance over her shoulder to know that Buffy’s hands are fluttering all over her face to find a suspicious lump.

“Remember what they say about mean people and sucking,” Buffy warmly complains to Faith’s retreating back.


	3. Faith and the Issue of Want

**  
_Xander watches Faith, sweaty-palmed, dry-mouthed, pants tight in all the wrong ways. Faith toys with him, dancing closer as if she cares. Not likely._   
**

 

Xander smoothly navigates the beater into a parking spot near their fourth Orpheus den of the night.

Faith can’t help but shake her head. Xander has bullshit luck on parking spaces. The front door of the den is 20 paces down the block. They’ll be back in the car and gone before anyone inside even twigs to the idea that they had unwelcome guests checking out the human clientele.  She half-suspects that Willow’s put a spell on the car so they’d always get the sweet spot. Hell, she’s even willing to bet the meter’s broken so there’d be no need to dig out any coin for the privilege of parking on the city streets. Not that it matters one way or the other this time of night.

Xander gulps down the last of his coffee. Then he shakes the cup for good measure, as if hoping there’s a few drops he missed.

Faith knows _exactly_ how he feels.

“I’m going to need a refill after this,” Xander wearily remarks as he reaches for the door handle.

“Wait,” Faith quietly orders.

Xander’s immediately on alert. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Just want you to take a fucking breath before we go waltzing in there,” Faith answers. “You’re exhausted.”

“So are you,” Xander bristles.

“No shit. Me also have superpowers, you don’t,” Faith bristles back. “So let’s take a breath, get our bearings, and then storm the beaches. You know as well as I do that a shit-ton of the unexpected can slam down on your head when you’re dealing with tweakers riding high on the big O.”

Xander leans back in the driver’s seat, hands resting lightly on the wheel, but doesn’t say anything.

Faith resists the urge to snarl at him as she angrily glares up the block at their target.

“Sorry,” Xander finally says. “This whole thing is dragging up…I mean…this situation is kind of like reliving…well, it’s getting under my skin. And I don’t mean in a good way.”

The apology is unexpected. Faith’s not entirely sure it’s even welcome. She’s itching for a fight. Fists or words, it doesn’t really matter. _Anything_ has to be better than this thin, grey film that seems to be covering her life.

At least if she was fighting instead of just looking at human wrecks day after day, she’d feel like she was accomplishing something.

But this…

This…

“How well did you know her?” Xander suddenly asks.

Faith slits her eyes toward her search buddy for the night. “Who?”

“Hazel.” There’s a very definite unspoken “duh” at the mention of their target’s name.

Faith’s hands clench into fists and she has to remind herself that Xander doesn’t mean shit by it. He’s only making conversation. It’s all she can do to keep civil. “Not well. I mean, we chatted a few times, but nothing deep and meaningful.”

“Me, neither.” Xander sounds like he’s making a confession. “She was with us, what? Three months? She was gone almost two days before we realized she was among the missing.”

“And Robin was the one that realized she was gone.” Damn. That slipped out of her mouth. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t think about Robin tonight.

Well, not Robin so much. Her Robin-shaped problem.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Xander remarks.

It’s everything Faith can do to keep her eyes nailed to the den’s front door. There’s two mooks guarding the entrance. She hopes they’re both vampires. She really needs to kill something. This wounding bullshit is for the birds.

“I mean, yeah, that’s bad that only one person even noticed at first,” Xander prattles on completely oblivious, “but I don’t even want to think about how long we would’ve gone on with the not-noticing if—”

“Xander, shut the fuck up about dear Sir Robin,” Faith interrupts.

There’s a long beat of silence, followed by a very soft, “Oh. Guess that explains a few things.”

This time Faith does glance at him. Long enough to register the look of sympathy he’s aiming in her direction at any rate.

She can’t take it. She needs a fight, and Xander’s as good a target as any.

“Why? You interested in stepping in after Robin steps out?” she sweetly asks.

Xander holds up his hands in surrender before dropping them back onto the wheel, a sign he’s not willing to play this game.

She barely refrains from spitting “pussy” at him as she again focuses on the den. She makes the dangerous wish for a flamethrower and a map highlighting all of the Orpheus houses in the city. After burning every motherfucker to the ground — with or without the clientele inside — she’d stand over the ashes and laugh and laugh and laugh…

Before she lets that bit of daydream get out of hand, Faith firmly reminds herself that as attractive as the simple solution might be — hell, any solution at all that would result in the O houses going up in a puff of smoke — there would be some heavy complications as a fall out. The kind of heavy complications that have the potential to blow up her face and leave lots of bodies. It doesn’t help that her and simple solutions have a very bad history. She may not have a Watcher’s brains, but she sure as shit can learn from repeated blows to the head. It may take a while, but eventually something does get through her thick skull.

Which is why she is where she is:  stuck like rotten teeth in a piece of stale salt-water taffy. She could do a lot of damage if she chooses to chew on the problem, but there’s a very real threat of some serious pain for her trouble.

Not to mention spilled blood, and lots of it.

“Right about now, I’d give up another body part for some quality Molotov cocktails,” Xander says, as if reading her mind.

“Really,” Faith says shortly.

“Really. I want to _do_ something. Not this…this…whateverthehell we think we’re doing,” Xander waves at the den. “I mean, I know the whole argument about resources, and focusing our efforts on unwilling victims, whatever that means. But walking through these houses and doing nothing to stop it? Or even help? That just seems, I dunno. Wrong. Wronger than wrong, even.”

 “Can’t rape the willing.” Faith winces seconds after her mother’s words escape from her own mouth.

“Well, that’s not at all offensive,” Xander sarcastically says. “Seems to me the ‘willing’ in that equation depends on your point of view.” He jerks his chin towards the den’s entrance. “Especially in this case, where you’ve got people whacked out of their minds and don’t know where they are half the time.”

“Look, Xander, I _agree_ with you, okay?” Faith hates how tired she sounds. How beaten down. How _lost_. “But if we burned the shit out of every single O den in the city, we’d get nowhere fast. These houses move around a lot as it is. Do you really wanna roll up on a joint, only to find out that they pulled up stakes a few hours before because they heard a rumor that we just might be heading their way?”

“No. And it’s not like I don’t get why—”

“Or how about this,” Faith interrupts. “We become the target of every O-head in the Greater Cleveland area, and half of _them_ are straight-up human. You feel like defending yourself from a human who’s gunning for your ass using an actual gun? I don’t, that’s for shittin’ sure. Oh, and let’s not forget whoever the fuck is actually _behind_ the O-trade. Our happy little daytime lives would turn into a Goddamn constant battle just to keep breathing.”

“Whoa!” Xander exclaims. “What I was _trying_ to say before you went off on your rant is that I _get_ that there’s a million reasons why we don’t just go all Dirty Harry. I just don’t think, ‘Well, they’re willing victims,’ is a good reason. That’s all.”

This time Faith does snarl at him. “Well, why didn’t you just say so, you ass? You just made me _defend_ this bullshit.”

“And, again, can I just point out that you were ranting and wouldn’t let me interrupt?” Xander asks.

Faith’s head thunks back against the seat’s headrest. “I’m tired.” It’s not quite an apology, but it’s the best she can do right now.

“I get that,” Xander quietly says. “Although it seems to me that you’re dealing with more tension than most of us.”

Double-fuck and damn. She is right back at thinking about the _last_ thing she wants to think about.

Right. Time to turn the fucking tables and get the spotlight off of Robin. Or maybe she means herself.

“At least I’m getting laid.” Okay, not the smartest opening in the world in her bid to Change the Damn Subject Already, but she can work it.

“You and Willow are about it,” Xander easily agrees. He glances at her. “Although from the sound of things you’ll be joining us in the monk brigade pretty soon.”

Faith snorts. “Want to bet on that, boy toy? I can walk into any club in Cleveland and get what I want with a snap of my fingers.”

“No doubt,” Xander growls.

Faith slaps the dashboard hard enough to make it creak. “Yeah? And you’re surrounded by hot chicks with superpowers. What are the odds in your favor again, stud? Twenty-five-to-one? What the fuck is your excuse?”

“I don’t do jailbait,” Xander yells at her.

“Age of consent in Ohio is 16. Look it up, ass face,” Faith yells back.

Xander stops cold. Then he begins to cough like he’s trying not to laugh. “I do _not_ want to know how you know that.”

She looked it up after a few too many of the hetero-Slayers decided to target the too-few men in the house. Frankly, someone could’ve knocked her over with a feather when she saw that it wasn’t 18. Not that any law stopped any horny teeny-bopper from screwing. It sure as shit didn’t stop her. But _still_.

And she’s not about to admit any little bit of that truth, especially to _Xander_ for Christ’s sake.

“Yeah, well, sometimes life’s a mystery,” Faith snipes. “My question still stands.”

“Me live with all those girls. Me figure it’s best to keep arms’ length, preferably with witnesses in the same room. Me figure it’s safer, because I really can’t afford to lose multiple body parts if it goes bad,” Xander says as he taps on that damn eye patch. “Besides, hitting on the new girls before they see the shape of an L on my forehead is just creep-tastic with a side of skeevy. I’ll pass on the dirty old man bit until, y’know, I actually am old and can be dirty without the immediate threat of having my arms ripped off.”

Faith can’t help it. She wants to hit, and hit, and hit, and hit until Xander feels the pain. “Not that question. My earlier question. About you itching to slide into Robin’s place after he slides out.”

Xander shakes his head. “Wow. I know that my stress levels have put me in the headspace of wanting to pick a fight with whoever’s handy, even if picking it with you is high on the suicidal side. But you win. You’re more determined. So let’s say we fought, you kicked my ass, and just drop it, okay?”

Faith double-takes in surprise.

Xander nervously taps his fingers on the steering wheel and doesn’t look at her.

Faith suddenly feels more exhausted than she’s ever felt in her life. She’s not sure she has the energy to leave the car, let alone walk those 20 paces up to the Orpheus den and actually go inside. Worse, they have one more house to hit after this. The very _thought_ of the whole wash-rinse-repeat is twisting her stomach into knots.

It’s not so much her gut-certainty that Hazel won’t be in the den they’re looking at, or even in their last scheduled stop. It’s the possibility that she’s wrong; that they might — just might — actually find her. Faith’s pretty sure she knows how it’ll go down. There’ll be pain, and blood, and the very real possibility that someone will end up dead.

Maybe a lot of someones.

Christ. It makes her hands shake just thinking about it.

To cover up, Faith starts digging around for some spare stakes. “The two guards. Vampires you think?”

“This time of night? Probably,” Xander answers in a too-normal tone of voice. “But the way our luck is going? Probably not. So I guess you should be prepared to punch first, stake later.”

Faith twirls a stake in the air, and nearly lets out a cheer when she catches it with barely a hint of a fumble. “Ready?”

“Not really, but it’s more of a not-ready on account of being sick and tired of doing this,” Xander answers. “You?”

“Fuck, no, for the same reasons.” Faith feels strangely relieved that she’s admitting that much. “But we might as well get it over with. Let’s roll.”


	4. Faith and the Issue of Control

**  
_Willow watches Faith, and rolls her eyes at Faith's recklessness, her crudity. She wishes she could be Faith, but different — a controlled, careful Faith. It doesn't work that way._   
**

 

Tonight was more reconnaissance to find more rumored locations of Orpheus houses, except that every lead turned up simple abandoned shells; abandoned shells with homeless squatting inside; or regular, old crackhouses and meth dens that should be left to civvie law.

But no sign of any Orpheus, or that Orpheus had ever been used within those crumbling walls.  After the month she’s had, she intimately knows the signs. Hell, she could be blind and she’d recognize it by _smell._ It’s chemicals, piss, blood, sweat, and sex topped by a whiff of something Faith can’t quite name — magic, she supposes — that comes together in one unholy stench that seems to stab right into her brain via her nostrils.

So there she is, standing on an abandoned street corner in a bad part of town with her thumb up her ass, and exhausted beyond the telling of it. It’s not even midnight, and she’s ready to go home, crawl under the covers, and sleep for a week. The one good thing — if it can be counted as a good thing, since she’s still not sure — is that now there’s no Robin for her to deal with. He finally got the balls to leave, just like she always knew he would.

Since trying to actually do her job and stake something in her state of mind is liable to get _someone_ killed, she might as well follow her instincts and go home for some quality snooze time.

“Faith! Faith! Whoo-hoo!”

Faith groans. She recognizes that too cheerful voice. _Willow_. Little Miss Sunshine, herself. The _last thing_ she needs — that absolutely last fucking thing — is for Willow to give her yet _another_ mealy-mouthed pep talk.

“Faith!” The irritated exclamation is followed by the distinct sound of a foot stamping with impatience.

Faith looks to the night sky and sighs. No point in running now. She might as well see if she can bum a ride home off the witch.

Faith turns toward the source of the voice, and is shocked when all she sees is some club crawler with a buzzcut and way too many piercings than is strictly healthy, even by Faith’s admittedly jaded standards. The club crawler looks and acts like she scored herself some ecstasy earlier in the evening by performing a couple of blow jobs in the men’s room.

Christ, she’s so tired that she can’t even pinpoint the location of Willow’s voice using that fabulous Slayer hearing of hers. She scans the immediate area and comes up snake-eyes on the witch-hunting front.

She rubs her hands over her face. “I’m not in the mood, Willow. Just drop the invisibility spell, or whatever the hell it is you’ve done, so I can fucking see you, okay?”

There’s a definite sound of an off-kilter giggle.

Faith’s eyes once more slide to the club crawler. Yup. The ho is the one doing the giggling.

Faith throws up her hands. “Right. I’m outta here.”

“No, no, no. Wait! S’me!” the club crawler insists.

Faith slits her eyes, trying to match the voice with the package. Even though she’s seeing it and hearing it, she can’t make her brain stop whirring over the inconsistency. “Willow?” she tentatively asks.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The club crawler — Willow — bounces like she’s listening to a song only she can hear.

Faith is suitability impressed. “Shiiiiiit, girl. If I ever need to do some undercover slumming, I want you to slap a face like that on me. That’s really something to see.”

“Totally five by five?” Willow prompts as she continues to boogie down to whatever the hell it is she’s playing in her brain.

Faith frowns. Something is not adding up here. “Yeaaaaahhhhh. I guess. Look, you bring a car? Because I could use a ride and my hitching thumb ain’t up to the task of scoring a ride from a stranger with candy.”

Willow waves an airy hand as she sways to that nonexistent music. “It’s around here somewhere. I guess.” Then she starts tunelessly humming.

 _Oh, shit!_ Faith thinks as she surges forward, grabs Willow by her upper arms, and pulls her close so she can get a look in her eyes.

Willow giggles in response. “OH! You gonna give me a kiss?”

Pupils shrunk to pinpricks. The rictus grin. The muscles twitching under her hands. The euphoria. Shit. All of it. _All_ of it. Not O. Thank God, not the big O. But something else. Definitely something else.

Faith lets Willow go like her hands have been scalded. “Willow, what the fuck?”

Willow’s high momentarily crashes. “’S matter?”

“What the _hell_ are you high on?” Faith demands.

“Not high,” Willow insists with wounded pride. “ _Tipsy_. Just a little. I _know_ the diff’rence.”

Faith takes an involuntarily step back and a deep breath. Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh _Christ._ Bad enough that they were all dealing with a Slayer hooked on O. Things would go from bad to really fucking ugly very quickly if the world’s most powerful witch decided she liked to lose control on something resembling a regular basis. Or worse, a _junkie_ basis.

Faith wills herself to stay stock still. Using her fists is not the way to go here. All Willow needs to do is mumble some half-assed spell and Faith would discover what it’s like to be a smear on the sidewalk.

Calm. She needs to stay calm.

“Don’t give me that shit. You are fucking _high_.”

So much for calm.

Willow’s shoulders slump as if the Goddamn truth spoken out loud is enough to defeat her. “I…I…overdid it. I thought I could do this without losing it.” She adds in a near whisper, “Don’t tell Buffy or Xander. They’ll get…get…disappointed.”

 _Disappointed? I think you mean mind-bendingly rip-shit, because it’s not nearly bad enough we got a junkie Slayer that can pull off people’s arms without realizing she’s doing it,_ Faith sarcastically thinks. She’s smart enough not to say that out loud.

“Fine. I won’t tell them, under one condition,” Faith says with arms crossed over her chest. “You tell me what the _fuck_ you were thinking when you decided to pull this shit.”

When it comes to this keeping calm thing, she sucks so hard.

Willow, apparently, doesn’t seem to notice that Faith has become a bundle of fail. Her grin is so broad, and so bright, that it comes very close to lighting up their street corner. “Attacking our problem! Our Hazel problem, I mean.”

“How is this,” Faith waves an arm at Willow to indicate the whole package, “attacking our problem?”

Willow stands up straight and answers with a voice that’s more than a touch school-marmish prim. “ _We_ have been looking for her all stupid.”

“And you found a better way,” Faith deadpans. Oh, she can’t _wait_ to hear what Willow the Wise has to say.

Willow grins, clearly mistaking Faith’s cynicism for encouragement. “See, I got to thinking—”

Faith snorts and resists the urge to say, “Thinking was your first mistake.”

Willow spreads her arms like they’re wings and walks in a wobbly circle like she some kind of frigging airplane. “We keep runnin’ from house to house to house night after night after night after night—”

“I get the picture,” Faith interrupts. “What does this have to do with the price of tea in China, again?”

“Getting to it.” Willow suddenly falls on her ass with a whump.

Faith startles and manages to take a few steps forward, but Willow’s giggle checks her. Better to keep her distance, Faith figures. Willow’s so high she’s probably seeing double or triple Faiths. Getting closer would probably limit the number of Faiths in the area, at least from Willow’s point of view.

Plus, there’s nothing like a little head start if Willow’s euphoria turns to pissed-off. A head start probably won’t help if the spells start flying, but it sure as hell can’t hurt.

“See, we’ve been asking the Orpheus users, right?” Willow hiccups around the giggling.

“Not so much on the asking. And I _got_ that part,” Faith says. “What I don’t get is this bullshit.”

“Well, they don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.” Willow hiccups again. “So I got to thinking…”

 _There’s that thinking thing again._ Faith sighs. It’s all she can do not to put her head in her hands and scream.

“Let’s try magic junkies!” Willow thrusts a pointed finger to the sky, like she’s saying ‘eureka’, or ‘by George, I think I’ve got it’, or even ‘elementary, dear Watson’.

Funny, Willow doesn’t seem to be disappointed when Faith crosses her arms across her chest instead of breaking out into applause. “Magic junkies,” Faith deadpans. Of all the stupid…

“Weeeelllll, it’s not the _magic_ so much. It’s the spells.” Willow holds her hand up in front of her face and starts wiggling her fingers. The cross-eyed look she gives her finger tips, like they are the most amazing thing she’s ever seen would be really fucking funny if it was someone _other_ than the most powerful Wicca in the West.

Faith counts to 30 before prompting, “It’s the spells…”

Willow drops her hand in her lap and looks up at Faith with a dopey grin. “Right. The spells. The spells are the key. The spells are what give you that thing. That zing. That zing thing. And not everyone who uses is a junkie, y’know. _Some_ people indulge in the spells only a leetle, eeney, beeney bit.”

“Yeah, well, it’s pretty clear to me that you ain’t the take-or-leave-the-toke-on-the-table type,” Faith growls.

Willow’s eyes narrow and her mouth opens.

“It’s just pretty apparent to me that you’re wasted instead of buzzed,” Faith quickly explains as she backs up a step with hands out, all the better to show that she didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Anything that keeps her from turning into a smear of blood has gotta be a good thing, right?

Willow suddenly looks guilty. “Yeah. I thought I could handle it.” She suddenly wails, “But I’ve doing so good! All week!”

Faith’s mouth drops open. It takes her a little bit to find her voice. “All _week_?” she finally chokes out.

Willow nods, and looks like she’s about to cry.

Faith desperately looks around. If only she could conjure one of the crew out of thin air. Like Giles. Or Buffy. Or Xander. Or Kennedy. _Someone._ No such luck. She’s on her own, and she’s got to be careful if she’s gonna take control of the situation.

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s cool. It’s cool,” Faith says in as calm a voice as she can muster. “C’mon, girl. A few deep breaths. Get your zen or some shit like that on. Then tell me the 4-1-1. ’Cause the way you were acting, you musta found something big, right?”

Willow looks up at her again, her eyes suspiciously bright. “Hazel?”

Faith vigorously nods. “That’s right. Hazel. Our little lost Slayer.”

Willow seems to find the strength to pull her shit together from somewhere inside. The witch starts to clumsily get to her feet, only to stumble on the way to getting upright. Next thing Faith knows, she’s right there helping Willow the rest of the way.

So much for careful.

The grateful look Willow gives her, though, tells Faith that she’s finally on top of the situation.

“C’mon,” Faith gently says, “let’s lean you against this car over here.”

She manages to get Willow settled on the hood, but it’s pretty clear that the witch is not going to stay upright without help. Faith settles next to her, locking one arm around Willow’s left. That way if Willow leans right, Faith can jerk her upright. If Willow leans left, the worst that’ll happen is Faith’ll get drool on her shoulder

“Don’t tell Buffy or Xander,” Willow whispers. “Or Giles. _Especially_ not Giles.”

“I won’t,” Faith promises again, despite the feeling that maybe she shouldn’t. “But, Willow, you gotta talk to me.”

Willow takes a deep breath. It’s pretty clear that she’s fighting to keep focused. “I figured if we weren’t having any luck with the Orpheus people, maybe I should try getting information out of a different group. I mean, cliques aren’t clique-y with each other, but there’s always gossip. Right?”

“Maybe back in that white-bread suburban high school of yours, but I’m thinking not so much on the streets,” Faith answers. “I always got the impression that O-heads were the meth users of the mystical dope world.”

“Oh, yeah. You got that right. A definite better-than-thou thing going on there.” Willow’s vigorous nod is enough to make her lose her precarious balance. Faith has to yank on Willow’s arm to get her back upright.

“But you found something anyway,” Faith prompts.

“Well, I _know_ that in magic-drug-spell world that powerful people get the best of everything,” Willow says. “Like, cutsies in line. The best spells. The best _dealers_. Because, y’see, the dealers get some kind of zing out of it. That zing thing. I think. Not sure. It’s all about the power, y’know.”

Faith _does not_ want to know how Willow knows this shit.

“So, I figure, Slayer, right? Slayer equals power, right? So, if Orpheus works the way you say it does, someone’s gonna figure out that they’ve got a really powerful person hooked.” Willow squints as if she’s really trying to remember how she got from her brain fart to here.

“Yeah, well, Slayer plus vampire — which you _need_ if the O’s gonna work — can also equal a dead Slayer,” Faith says. “So what made you think that Hazel was gonna get best of the best instead of deader than dead?”

Willow waggles a finger at her. “Power.”

Which doesn’t actually answer the question, but Faith’s willing to let it go in exchange for a quick end to this conversation.

Willow nods, strange grin playing around her face. “And I was right.”

“Okay,” Faith carefully prompts.

“After a week of asking around, I managed to find out where all the _really powerful_ magic users in town go when they want to have fun,” Willow says.

Faith sucks in a deep breath. “More powerful than you?”

Willow snorts. The ‘as if’ is completely unspoken.

“Go on,” Faith encourages.

“I had to do a little, um, tasting along the way. To prove I was worthy of the really good stuff.” Willow gives Faith a proud smile. “But I got the address and that’s where I was. Tonight.”

“And that’s where you found out where Hazel’s been hiding,” Faith doubtfully adds.

Willow probably means to poke Faith in the middle of her chest, instead of on the tip of her tit. “I was right. Rumor has it that one of the main Orpheus suppliers for Cleveland has a Slayer on the payroll.”

Faith feels herself go cold. “She an enforcer?”

“No.” Willow shakes her head. “That’s what’s so weird, and that’s why it’s only rumor. No one’s seen a Slayer enforcer anywhere around. No one’s seen a Slayer around, period. But the woman who runs the magic-drug-user club — she _loved_ me, by the way. She thought I was _the best_. Nice club, too. Really nice. Great food. Great music. It was, like, for rich people. Richer than the Chases even. And—”

“ _Hazel_ , Willow. Remember her?” Faith desperately interrupts before Willow completely loses the point.

“Oh. Right. Hazel. The woman. The head woman, I mean. The owner, actually.” Willow seems to be fighting like hell to stay on track. “ _She_ said that she knew it was true. About the Slayer being on somone’s payroll. But she doesn’t know why, ’cause they aren’t using her for anything. Not at all.”

Faith feels her heart turn to ice. The idea that a major O supplier might be using Hazel as some kind of enforcer was bad enough. The uncertainty of this new twist leaves open a whole lot of possibilities, many of them a fuckload worse.

“Christ. A _supplier_ , and not a street-level dealer. That’s some heavy shit.” Faith bites her lip and shakes her head. “How the fuck we gonna get to her?”

“I have an address,” Willow answers in a small voice.

Faith sharply looks at Willow. “An address?” she doubtfully asks. “You sure it’s good?”

“Good as of three days ago,” Willow says.

Faith closes her eyes and thinks. “Okay. Okay.” She nods, more to psych herself up than Willow. “I’m thinking we’re gonna have to sit on the place to see what cards we’ve been dealt, but it’s a start.”

“So I did good?” Willow’s eyes are threatening a spillover of tears.

Faith resists the urge to slap Willow upside the head for taking such a fucking stupid risk. Instead she says, “You got us a lead. Can’t ask for more than that.”

Willow nods with an edge of defeat, as if knowing that the words ‘good job’ were in no danger of leaving Faith’s mouth. “You’re not going to tell, are you?”

“I’ll tell ’em you dug it up, but I’ll keep the how on the downlow,” Faith promises for yet the _third_ time. “But you pull this shit again and I’ll be singing loud enough that they’ll hear me coast-to-coast. Feel me?”

“Fair ’nuff,” Willow sighs as her head drops onto Faith’s shoulder.

Faith lets Willow rest, and plans how she’s gonna sneak Willow back home without being seen.

What the hell. It’s the least she can do.


	5. Faith and the Issue of Being Seen

**  
_Lots of people watch Faith. Nobody sees her._   
**

 

It’s been a week, and the bruises are finally fading from her arms into a sickly swirl of purple and yellow.

She only yesterday stopped limping.

With a wince, Faith rolls down her long sleeves. It’s amazing, really. She had somehow managed to forget how much damage a pissed off Slayer riding a wave of don’t-give-a-fuck could lay down on another. At least this time she managed to avoid adding a new scar to her collection of one, which she got courtesy of Buffy when the other Slayer momentarily rode her own wave of don’t-give-a-fuck while armed with a wicked knife.

It only makes her feel marginally better that Buffy had managed to forget that particular lesson, too. Okay, not better. Less stupid. Maybe.

Faith sinks even further into her rattan papasan chair and listens to the sound of the early spring rain slapping against her bedroom window.  Goddamn, why did she insist on getting this thing back when she and Robin claimed this room as their very own? Yeah, the chair’s comfortable, but it’s jammed in a corner because it doesn’t fit anywhere else. Now that she thinks about it, she can’t remember how the hell her and Robin even managed to share this bedroom, what with her stuff and his stuff and the two of them. It’s small. Stifling.

Shit. The walls are closing in. She can _feel_ it.

She needs to Get. Out.

Now.

Faith makes a move to get up, but the sound of hard, cold rain against the bedroom window, coupled with a nasty twinge in her left shoulder, makes her rethink the idea.

As if on cue, there’s a knock.

Faith’s breath freezes in her chest.

She knew that knock was coming. She can’t say she didn’t.

The only surprise is that all the little Scoobies waited a week before springing this on her. She figures the hold-up was the ritual fight about who was going to man up and ask her a favor. She suspects the whole business was finally settled with a rousing round of rock-paper-scissors, or hot potato, or possibly even a twisted version of spin-the-bottle where instead of someone getting a kiss, someone has to ask the group’s former psycho and fixer-upper project to talk to the group’s current one.

Another knock.

She might as well get it over with, although she’s still debating whether to make the conversation go down easy or hard.

“Hold your horses!” Faith shouts as she hauls herself to her feet with a grunt.

Faith flings the door open before she lets herself think twice about it.

Buffy’s standing on the other side. She’s shivering and her hair’s still soaking wet, which means she just got back from wherever Giles has stashed Hazel. Buffy’s bedraggled state and the fresh bruise on her chin tells Faith all she needs to know. Whatever just went down was bad enough that Buffy obviously thought the conversation had to happen _now_ , do not pass go, do not collect $200, and do not bother to pull your shit together between the front door and Faith’s bedroom. 

 _Of course,_ Faith sourly thinks. She should’ve known better. No way was B gonna put this responsibility off on someone else.

Without a word, Faith merely stands aside. Fuck it. She’s going to make this go down hard.

“Thanks,” Buffy acknowledges as she enters Faith’s room. She looks around, “Ummm…”

“What is it, B?”

“Looking for a place to sit,” Buffy says as she looks around. “I just realized that I didn’t at least towel-dry my hair before knocking on your door. I don’t want to get anything wet.”

Great. Buffy’s going to give a sales pitch and then build up to asking the favor. Although Faith’s tempted to tell the other Slayer to go fuck herself and just come out with it, she’s also morbidly curious to see how Buffy’s gonna spin this.

Son of a bitch. Morbid curiosity wins.

“Floor or the bed,” Faith says with a jerk of her head. “Don’t matter either way to me.”

“Thanks,” Buffy says distractedly says. To Faith’s surprise, Buffy decides to pull up a patch of floor.

Faith frowns in confusion as she closes the door. She pauses with her forehead against the wood as her stomach twists in knots. _Why_ did she let Buffy in? This conversation is going to _suck_.Okay, she has it coming because the bad shit people do never goes completely away, and what she did was worse than most.

Christ she needs a smoke, if only to give her hands something to do. But, she made a deal. Carcinogens are a strictly outside thing. And a deal’s a deal.

She settles on the next best thing.

Faith turns on her heel and strides over to desk Robin keeps promising he’ll move out of the room as soon as he’s settled in his own apartment.

Fuck it. No point in making this worse than it is. Maybe she’d feel different if Buffy didn’t look so damn sorry.

“Jesus, B. I was joking about the floor. Pull up a slice of bed,” Faith says as she flings open the bottom drawer.

“You sure?”

“Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it,” Faith answers as she pulls out a bottle.

“What’s that?” Buffy asks. 

Faith turns around and hands Buffy the bottle as the other Slayer hobbles over to the bed. “Don’t have any water heated up for tea, but I do got me a bottle of Scotch.”

“Scotch?” Buffy’s eyebrows rise as she dubiously looks at the bottle. “That’s so very Giles.”

“It’s Robin’s actually.” Faith turns away to check the drawer again and easily spots two glasses. They’re clean. Score! “He left it behind when the room got too small for the two of us. I’ll give it back if he asks politely, assuming I don’t drink it all first.”

“Me and alcohol are not mix-y things,” Buffy says as she drops on the edge of the bed.

Faith grabs the two glasses. “Two fingers ain’t gonna kill you, and something tells me I’m gonna need a drink before this is over.”

“Possibly more than one,” Buffy glumly agrees. “I’m guessing 21 years-old is good?”

“For this brand,” Faith says as she plunks the glasses down on the desktop and retrieves the bottle from Buffy with a swoop of her hand. She almost attempts to sound of Glenfiddich just to break Buffy’s grim mood, but decides against it. As it is this conversation is far more polite than she initially planned.

Once she pours the drinks, she silently hands Buffy a glass before dropping into the papasan with a glass of Scotch for her very own.

Buffy hesitates and studies the amber liquid. After a suspicious sniff and a tentative sip, she says without much enthusiasm. “It’s good.”

“Better than the rotgut I’d drink when I was underage,” Faith carefully agrees. “Back then, I’d even slug Robitussin for the alcohol if that was all there was at the party.”

“Sometimes growing up sucks, and sometimes it doesn’t,” Buffy says. She takes another sip. It’s less tentative this time around.

Faith waits. She’s been polite enough. Now she’s gonna make Buffy come out with it, even if it means the two of them have to sit here all night and stare at the walls.

The silence doesn’t last.

“I really hate to ask you this,” Buffy winces as she draws a deep breath, “but we really need you to give a quality talk to Hazel.”

Faith snorts. “The only shock there is that you didn’t ask me a week ago.”

Buffy grins at her, although God knows why. “Ummm, would you believe me if I told you that when we were choosing candidates to give Hazel ‘the talk’, you weren’t top of the draftee list?”

Faith blinks at her. She’s pretty sure she’s wearing a what-the-hell expression to boot. Buffy’s explanation doesn’t make any sense. Unless she somehow wound up in an alternative universe where she didn’t go off the deep end, didn’t go on a crime spree, didn’t try to feed an entire town to the Boss, didn’t murder people, and didn’t end up in jail.

While it’s possible, it’s really not likely.

“So what was I? Number two?” Faith asks sarcastically.

Buffy winces. “Number four, actually.”

“ _Four_?”

“Actually, you would’ve been number five, except that we were pretty sure she wasn’t going to listen to anything Xander had to say, despite the fact he’s got adult child of alcoholics written all over him,” Buffy says

Faith’s so stunned, that she can’t even muster up sarcasm. “Xander must’ve hearing loved that.”

“Actually, he agreed with us. Umm, not about the adult child thing because he’s never said anything about his parents and none of us ever had the heart to bring it up. At least to his face.” Buffy waves at her fresh bruise. “I’m pretty sure Hazel’s lovely parting gift didn’t actually play in his agreeing with us. He’s been on edge over this whole Hazel thing for…God. How long have we been dealing with this? Six weeks? Seven?”

“A little over six,” Faith’s absently answers. Her brain is still stuck on the whole you-weren’t-the-first-person-that-came-to-mind deal. “Seriously, B. What were you thinking? You need someone to give Hazel a little come-to-Jesus moment and you _don’t_ choose Exhibit A in the when-Slayers-fuck-up sweepstakes?”

Buffy has the nerve to look genuinely confused. “Except you’re _not_. Exhibit A, I mean.”

Faith wants to rub her temples to ease away the building confusion. She takes a sip of her Scotch instead and lets it warm her while she pulls her thoughts together. “B? I know what happened back in the day, but I’m starting to think you forgot. Which I know ain’t true, so what the hell is really going on here? You’re not going to hurt my fee-fees by being honest.”

Jesus Christ. How the hell did this reverse happen? She went from dreading the inevitable conversation — now going balls to the wall right here and right now — to actually arguing that all the little Soobies were acting like wusses for not coming to her straightaway.

Buffy winces. “If I was just looking for just a _Slayer_ , then yeah, you’ve got the pointest of points. Except your off-the-rails is a totally different deal than Hazel’s. _You_ were never an addict. Which means you’re firmly in Camp Exhibit B. You’d actually be Exhibit C, except we’ve got two people who are tied for Exhibit A. So, see? Totally not Exhibit A. More like living in the suburb next to Exhibit A.”

Faith can feel her jaw unhinge. Holy shit, she feels stupid for not realizing it at the time. Willow is totally Exhibit A. Wait. Buffy said there were _two_ , and since Xander has no plans on taking a crack at Hazel…

“ _Two_ better options than me?” Faith finally manages to choke out. “Who the hell—”

“Giles and Willow.”

Willow she expected. But Giles the Tweed-Clad Watcher? Pretty much the _last_ answer she expected. Faith drains her glass. She chokes as the large swallow burns everything in its path. “ _Giles?_ ” she croaks.

Buffy nods. “Back in the day, uummmm, before he even became a Watcher, he was hooked on, unh…”

“Please tell me it was something normal. Like smack, or Bolivian marching powder,” Faith says. “Please tell me it wasn’t…”

“Mysticism of the demon kind that makes you feel like you’re invincible because while you’re possessed you almost are?” Buffy innocently asks. “Did I mention that this possession was totally a voluntary thing? Because it was. Voluntary, I mean. And I got to see the closing act of that one because demons have such a hard time saying good-bye. Plus, they’re really patient about getting their revenge on. As fall-outs go, it wasn’t fun.”

Faith stares into her glass and wishes she hadn’t already drained it. “We live in a fucked-up world you and me. I hope you realize that.”

Buffy snorts her agreement, and takes a sip from her glass.

Faith doesn’t know why, but the reaction makes her feel better. “So, who’d you send in first?”

“Giles,” Buffy answers as she swirls her glass.

“Well _that_ was a mistake,” Faith remarks.

“And how.” Buffy’s back to glum. “We figured, I dunno, Giles could be like the poster child for turning your life around. From Mr. Living Dangerously through Magical Hallucinogens to Mr. Living Dangerously through Saving the World on a Regular Basis.”

“Girl like that ain’t gonna buy the sales pitch.” Faith can’t resist adding, “I should know, right?”

A corner of Buffy’s mouth quirks up. “Sooooo, when that didn’t work, we sent in Willow. On the upside, she lasted longer than Giles. On the downside…well, it was all kind of downside.”

“Probably didn’t believe a word your girl said,” Faith mumbles, thinking of Willow’s fucked-up club kid disguise. “She don’t look the part when she looks like herself.”

“Actually, Willow’s truthiness or lack thereof wasn’t the issue,” Buffy says. “It was the whole, ‘You’re not a Slayer, so what do you know?’ thing.”

“And that’s when all the little Schoobies decided to send _you_ in,” Faith deadpans. Good God. What the fuck were the Scoobies thinking? She knows from personal experience that Buffy is the _worst_ cavalry ever. It’s the earnestness coupled with the Jiminy Cricket harping that Buffy slips into when she’s getting on her save-people-from-themselves high horse.

Buffy shifts on the bed. “Ummm, I decided to send me in and marched into Hazel’s personal space before anyone had a chance to save me from my Girl Scout moment.”

Faith jerks her chin at Buffy to point out the fresh bruise. “How’d that work out for you?”

“It still hurts,” Buffy grumbles.

“The minute she pulled the me-Slayer-you-not on Willow, you shoulda known she wasn’t gonna listen. Not to you. Maybe not to anyone.” Faith takes a deep breath, once again wondering how the hell she wound up arguing that she was the horse for this race. “You should’ve skipped the pain and come straight to me.”

Buffy taps the lip of the glass with her fingertips. She looks embarrassed.

Faith can’t take it. She gets up. “You want a refresher? ’Cause right now I could use one.”

“Nah. I’m good.”

Faith pours herself another two fingers. It’s pretty damn clear to her that she’s gonna have to take a crack at Little Miss Junkie. If Buffy’s being straight-up about everything, it’s equally clear she’s gonna go down in flames like everyone else.

Yet, she’s going to give it a shot, the best that she can.

Funny. Turns out that in the end Buffy wasn’t the one who needed to give the sales pitch. She needed to give it to herself.

“I guess I went in after Willow failed because I didn’t want to put even _more_ responsibility on you. I thought that you really needed a break from us pestering you _again_ so you could point us in the right direction _again_ ,” Buffy finally says.

Faith caps the bottle and turns around to face Buffy with a frown. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Buffy waves around the room as if she’s trying to include the whole world, complete with the history that dragged them both kicking and screaming to this point. “You’ve been our go-to in-charge girl since the whole thing with Hazel started. I figured you could use some time off from the pressure cooker we stuck you in.” She winces. “Coupled with the fact that I was so hot on trying to prove that I’m not completely useless. Except, y’know, it turns out I managed to screw that up, too. I probably made things worse.”

Faith gives her head a hard shake as she puts the glass down on the desktop. “You’re losing me, B. The hell I’m in charge. I’m barely in charge of _me_ on my best of days.”

Now it’s Buffy’s turn to look confused. “But you _were_ in charge. We were all relying on you to tell us where to go and what to do. _For weeks._ If it weren’t for you, we would’ve never found her.”

Faith leans against the desk. “Willow actually found her. And her brainfart on how to go looking was something she came up with her own. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Buffy, it appears, wasn't 100% ready to let go of her point. “But I do know that it would’ve taken a lot longer for her to even think of trying it. And by then, God knows how much time would’ve passed.”

Faith feels her stomach constricting. “Giles knew what the big O was.”

“No. He only heard about it, but he didn’t know anything about it,” Buffy points out. “Orpheus didn’t pop up on anyone’s radar until _after_ Giles became my Watcher. Since we never ran into it in Sunnydale, he only knew the name and that it was some kind of mystical drug, but nothing else. He didn’t know how it worked, where to look for it, or even that it took two to tango for it to kick in. Faith, he knew _nothing_. And the rest of us? We knew less than. None of us had even heard of Orpheus before you brought it up.”

“You would have figured it out,” Faith stubbornly insists.

“And how on earth were our resident brains going to research Orpheus?  Because I have to tell you, Faith, it’s not in any books in our library. I know because Willow, Robin, and Giles tore those shelves apart,” Buffy says. “I don’t get it. Why are you having a hard time believing that we were all relying on you?”

 _Because I don’t want it to be true._ The unbidden thought brings with it a kind of paralyzing panic. They were relying on _her_ to make things right? No wonder they’re all fucked.

Next thing Faith knows, Buffy’s _right there_ at her side. “You look like you need to sit down.”

Faith pulls out the desk’s chair and does just that.

Buffy seems…

She seems…

Sympathetic.

“I guess I was. In charge, I mean,” Faith finally admits. “Didn’t mean to be.”

Buffy’s mouth quirks up. “Right on schedule.”

Faith frowns at her.

“The whole how-did-I-do-this-to-myself rumba, complete with the I-could’ve-done-better weeping violins and Disney’s own special denial-land ride.” Buffy nods, as if she’s finally found some sure footing at last. “More fun than zombie monkeys, isn’t it?”

Buffy’s question is enough to surprise a bark of laughter out of her.

Buffy looks mighty proud of herself as she re-settles on the edge of the bed. “You know, I used to get so _frustrated_ with all my friends, looking to me all the time to be take-charge girl. And how that pressure would just build, and build, and _build_ until things got explode-y. The fights would sometimes get so bad that it was a wonder there wasn’t blood on the walls. Anya used to call it the Annual Pre-Show to the Apocalypse.”

Faith groans. “Can I pass on the fighting? I think I’m gonna get my fill when I talk to Hazel.”

“Well, you have one thing that I didn’t,” Buffy teases.

“What? My looks? My charming personality?” Faith sarcastically asks.

Buffy grins. “Me.”

“You,” Faith deadpans

Buffy shrugs. “I’ve walked in your shoes, remember? I know how to bleed off the tension before explode-y happens, so I did. You were already taking gold in the Stress Olympics. I figured you didn’t need the drama.”

Buffy had her back? That’s completely new.

Buffy heaves a sigh and adds, “And for once, I got to walk in Xander’s and Willow’s shoes. I guess I never realized they had a different pressure cooker to deal with. I have to tell you, it’s no fun wanting to help and doing the best you can to actually, y’know, _help_ , but constantly feeling like it’s not nearly enough to do any good.”

“So, which is worse?” Faith numbly asks. “In charge? Or second banana?”

“They stink in their own very special ways.” Buffy quirks a smile. “Just so you know. I’m not sure whether I should thank you or hit you for giving me a taste of the other side.”

Faith reaches for her glass. “What we need are a few more drinks to figure it out.”

Buffy picks her glass up off the floor and drains it. “I’m game.”

Faith grabs the bottle and pours Buffy another hit. “I’ll talk to Hazel first thing. Not sure if I’ll do any better than you, to be honest.”

“Thanks. For everything.” Buffy salutes Faith with her glass. “And just so you know, I’m not the only one who’s glad you were here.”

Faith doesn’t know what to say to that, so she takes a drink. When she comes up for air, she says, “B? You’re wrong, you know.”

“About what?”

“About me not being an addict. I was you know.” Faith takes a deep breath and looks up. “For me, it was about power.”

Buffy pauses.

Then Buffy’s lips quirk up and she gives Faith a slight nod.

It looks an awful lot like Buffy understands how it is.


	6. Faith and the Issue of Hope

**  
_Nobody, that is, until Gwendolyn Post._   
**

 

Faith feels like something inside has her broken wide open. It has the real feel of that _before_ and _after_ tick-tock that she’s always used to mark time.

Some people mark their lives using birthdays. Or anniversaries. Or holidays. Not her, boy. She uses the yardstick of _before_ shit happened to her, and _after_ shit happened to her.

Like before Sunnydale became Craterdale and after Sunnydale became Craterdale.  A total gimme since it’s the same for everyone around her.

Or before prison and after prison.  That’s an obvious to anyone who knew her from the bad ol’ days.

Of course there’s always the classic:  before becoming a Slayer and after becoming Slayer.  Obvious with a side of no-shit-Sherlock, just because that’s how this kind of crap rolls.

Then there’s the one before-and-after that she doesn’t like to think about:  before Gwendolyn Post and after Gwendolyn Post. She’ll be damned if she can figure out what broke in her between the _before_ and the _after_ on that one. The hell of it is, Faith’s not sure she’ll ever figure it out.

That’s the thing about _before_ and _after_. Something always gets broken, but it takes time to figure out what got lost.

There’s something different about this _after_ though. She feels like something broke, but it doesn’t feel like she actually lost anything.

She doesn’t trust this strange feeling, whatever it is. She doesn’t trust it one bit.

Maybe if she sits here long enough and stares at the horizon hard enough the whole thing’ll become clear. Yeah, better if it were an ocean instead of Lake Erie, and better if the mystery on the other side of the horizon was an actual mystery instead of Canada, but she’s gotta make do with what she has. So she imagines that she’s down at the Cape and sitting on a beach that’s ocean-side. She pretends those tiny great lake waves are actually cold Atlantic swells. She breathes in time to the ocean in her head as the sky edges away from the shadowy grey of early morning into the sunlight of an unseasonably cool early spring day.

“There you are,” a male voice says.

Faith’s head spins toward the voice. She frowns in confusion when she sees Xander standing near her park bench with one of those big-ass Starbuck’s cups in hand.

Xander’s grin is tired. “Just so you know. We’ve got people fanned out all over the city looking for you.”

“Afraid I run off?” she asks, but there’s no sneer in it. No heat.

“More like afraid you were dead in a ditch,” Xander says as he plops down on the bench.

“I…oh.” Faith’s honestly not sure how to respond. People are worried? About her? Like everything else for the past few hours, it’s yet another idea she can’t wrap her arms around.

Xander suddenly thrusts the coffee cup under her nose. “Here.”

Faith blinks at the cup and, almost against her will, she reaches for it. “Jesus, how long ago did you spot me?”

Xander shrugs. “About 5 minutes ago. Long enough to whip out my cell to call off the dogs. Don’t worry. I told them not to mob you. I said I’d check in with you and then I’d head back, with you or not.”

Faith side-eyes him. There’s _no way_ he had enough time to race to a Starbuck’s to get her coffee if he’s telling the truth. She suspiciously sips at the cup. A double mocha with extra mocha and extra cream. She should have known the coffee wasn’t meant for her.

“You drink from this?” she asks. She can even feel a corner of her mouth quirk up.

Xander waves a lazy hand at her as he looks out over the lake. “One or two dainty sips. No backwash. Promise.”

Faith takes a bigger sip. The warmth is welcome in the chill air. She’s almost sorry to hand it back.

Xander again waves her off. “Keep it. If you’ve been sitting out here for as long as I think you have, you need it more than me. I can just get another on the way home.”

 _Home,_ Faith thinks. _When did he start to think of that Slayer-Watcher rooming house of ours as home?_ She waits for Xander to say something else, but he seems content to stare out at that lake and just wait. Wait for what, she doesn’t know.

Rather than deal with the silence, she asks, “So, whaddya think of our girl’s chances?”

Xander grimaces. “Which one?”

“Hunh?”

“Willow? Or Hazel?” Xander clarifies.

 _Oh, hell. How the fuck did he find out?_ Faith stares down at the cup’s cover like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.

He looks at her then. “In case you’re wondering, I happened to see you helping her into the house a few weeks ago.” To Faith’s surprise, his tone isn’t accusatory. “Let’s just say I recognize stumbly Willow and leave it at that.”

Faith winces. “Yeah. That was back when I thought she did a one-time stupid thing for a good cause. Like, before B told me that she had issues at some point.”

“‘Issues’. That’s one way to put it.” Xander seems grimly amused. “I’ve already very quietly confronted Willow about it.”

“Great,” Faith growls. “Now Willow’s gonna think I narced on her.”

Xander shrugs. “I volunteered that I saw it with my lone little eye, so other than me mentioning that I saw you helping her into the house, your name never came up.” He leans toward her then. “Can you do me a favor? If you happen to see any signs of Willow going back to that bad habit, can you let me or Giles know?”

Faith’s eyebrows rise. “You wanna leave B in the dark?”

“No. I just don’t like watching Buffy’s head pop like an overripe grape. It’s a thing,” Xander explains.

“Well, I dunno.” Faith leans back with a grin. “Depending on my mood, I _might_ wanna see that.”

“Then it’s on your hands,” Xander intones. “Just make sure I’m out of the state if you decided to go all town crier, okay?”

They look at each other then, and immediately crack up for no reason at all.

Faith has to admit. It feels good.

When they both calm down, she adds, “Do you think Willow will do it again?”

“I think it is exactly what she said. She had an idea, decided to try it, and scored the information we needed.” Xander’s shrug reveals that he’s got a sliver of doubt in his mind, which he probably doesn’t want to admit out loud.

Faith decides that she’s not going to call him on it. There’s really no point unless she wants to start a fight. She’s simply not in the mood. Instead, she focuses her attention on the real star of the hour. “When I said ‘our girl’, I meant Hazel.”

Xander doesn’t bother to disguise his cynicism this time. “I’m the gloomy gus of the group, so if you’re looking for a hopeful anything I’m not your guy.”

Faith takes another sip of the mocha and bites her lip. “Hate to say it, but I’m with you.”

“Everyone else is trying way too hard to stay positive.” Xander’s hands slowly clench and unclench in an absent-minded way. “At least no one’s stupid enough to say it’s going to be easy, but the general attitude seems to be, ‘Well, if Giles and Willow could kick the habit, she should be able to do it, too’.”

“Sure. Unh-hunh.” Faith snorts. “As long as she was sober when they needed her to do whatever it is they needed her to do, she had hot-and-cold running O with vampire of her choice to match. Plus that penthouse apartment. And all that spending green. She had the rockstar life, there.”

“And here we come and rescue her from it all,” Xander glumly agrees. “Good thing, because little did our Hazel know, she had hit rock bottom. Okay, so rock bottom was covered with oriental rugs worth more money than I’ve ever earned in my entire life. But still. _Totally_ rock bottom.”

“Oh, I agree,” Faith nods. “The closet full of tailored designer clothes and expensive shoes that made B weep when she saw them was a definite giveaway to just how bad it was for her.”

“Do you find this helpful?” Xander asks. “Because I have to tell you, I’m not finding this helpful.”

“Crazy as this sounds, I do.” Off Xander’s incredulous look, Faith shrugs. “Maybe I feel better that I’m not the only one who figures Hazel’s gonna slip the leash first chance she gets.”

Xander carefully runs a hand through his hair, probably because he doesn’t want to jostle the strap for his eye patch. “I give it six weeks, at most.”

“I’m betting under,” Faith disagrees. “Within the next month. The question is, what are we gonna do then?”

“I dunno,” Xander admits. “Go after her again, I guess.”

Faith shakes her head, and takes another sip of the mocha. “Something tells me our girl’s gonna need to hit rock bottom face-first before she straightens up and flies right.”

Xander slumps lower on the bench. “Assuming she survives the landing.”

“Looking around that penthouse, she probably won’t. They had _plans_ for that girl, and they’ll be welcoming her back with open arms as soon as she’s out of our sight,” Faith says.

“So what are you saying? Give up?” Xander sounds like he wants to be outraged, but just doesn’t have the energy to build up a head of steam.

“No. And fuck no,” Faith answers without looking at him. “I’m all for going after her again a second time. Even a third. But at some point…at some point…” Faith takes a deep breath and looks at him, “at some point you’re gonna have to stand back and let her fall. If she’s lucky, she’ll be the only one who’ll take damage. If she’s smart, she just might survive.”

Xander’s frown deepens, but he doesn’t say anything.

Faith uncomfortably shrugs. “I may not have been lucky, but I got smart. Eventually. Just take it from the Slayer who knows the 4-1-1, okay?”

“And if she isn’t lucky? And if people who aren’t her get hurt? What then?” Xander sounds far too interested in the answer.

Faith looks him in that single eye of his and states, “Then we do what we gotta do.”

Xander looks away then. She can see him shiver. “Not loving hearing that.”

Faith nails her eyes on the horizon. “Wouldn’t have said it if I thought it was what you wanted to hear.”

They’re quiet for a while after that. It’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s more like the silence of people who’ve got a lot to think about, but haven’t quite figured out how they feel about it.

 _Well, welcome to the fucking club, Harris,_ Faith thinks as she continues to sip at the now rapidly cooling mocha.

“Hey, you want I should let you finish enjoying your alone time?” Xander suddenly asks. “I’ll tell the howling pack that you’re fine. Plus, I know how the whole group-living experience has been on the not-fun side for you recently and—”

Faith makes a _pffft_ sound. “It is what it is. Don’t sweat it. I haven’t.” Strange as it is, she actually means it.

“At least you have your own room. Andrew’s driving me _insane_ ,” Xander complains. “But what I’m trying to say is that I’ll tell everyone to give you some personal space when you get home. After the past few hours of searching the highs and lows of Cleveland for you, I’m pretty sure the urge to love-bomb you the second you walk through the door might be a bit strong.”

There’s that word again. _Home_. It sounds less strange hearing it for the second time in the course of this conversation. It even sounds almost normal.

Oh. _Oh!_

Faith sits bolt upright.

Xander’s immediately on alert. “What is it?”

Faith grins at him. A real, honest-to-God grin that she can feel down to her toes. “Nothing. Just had a weird thought, is all.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

Faith rolls her neck. The crack of her bones and the rhythmic tightening and loosening muscles feels a lot like tension draining away. “Don’t bother. Wouldn’t know how to answer anyway.”

“Well, I’ll get going.” Xander moves to get up.

“Nah. Wait. I’ll go with you.” Faith salutes him with the coffee cup. “I just wanna finish this before we go.”

Xander settles back down again. She can see him trying to study her without looking like he’s doing it. “Oh. Okay.”

“I did need some alone time. Earlier. Y’know. To think. Clear my head. That kind of thing,” Faith explains, even though Xander didn’t actually ask. “I’m over it.”

“So, what were you thinking about?” Xander asks.

Faith leans forward, elbows resting on her knees, and smiles at the horizon.

 _I was thinking about before and after._

 _I was thinking about Gwendolyn Post._

 _I was thinking about horizons._

What she wasn’t thinking about:  the fact that she had somehow — don’t ask her how — reached a horizon of sorts.

What’s more is that everyone had noticed.

Everyone, that is, except her.

The thing about horizons, though, is that there’s always another one ahead and anything — abso-frigging-lutely anything — can be on the other side. It isn’t about what she’ll do once she gets there, it’s more about what she’ll do while she’s _here_.

 _I just need to be lucky. And smart,_ Faith mentally adds.

“I was thinking about Canada,” Faith finally says out loud.

“Canada? You were thinking about Canada?” Xander asks. “Why?”

“Why not?” Faith asks with a grin.

She drains the cup of all its mocha and stands.

She’s ready now, for whatever comes next.


End file.
